The Fire and the Flood
by Sam Oh
Summary: A fluffy and intense Johnlock fanfiction. Sherlock gets a new case, adventures are pursued.
1. Chapter 1

The Fire and the Flood- Chapter 1

"BORED!"

"Oh, for Christs-"

John Watson heaved himself out of bed and rushed himself to the living room. Belongings were strewn about the floor and in the middle of them, a grown man dressed fretfully in a blue robe and his pajamas, holding a shotgun in his right hand. John sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Mrs. Hudson isn't going to be happy."

"Ah, being happy. Happy's boring. I was merely entertaining myself. Is that such a crime?"

"It is when you blast a hole in the damned wall!"

Sherlock said nothing, just turned away and flopped on the cluttered belongings.

"Fine, be that way. I'll make coffee, shall I?"

"Please," Came the muffled reply from the floor.

So John shuffled to the kitchen and busied himself while Sherlock eventually got off the floor, threw the gun to the side-

"Hey, be careful with that!"

And returned to his chair to put himself in his "thinking" position, where he placed both his palms together and just barely touched the tips of his fingers to the bottom of his chin, then closed his eyes.

So it was John who found him in this position when he returned to the living room with the steaming mugs of coffee. He carefully set one down on the table next to Sherlock's chair and then, with a final breath, plopped down on his chair and closed his eyes.

"So we have a case today?" John's voice carried about the room

"Hm, maybe not. Lestrade's cases have only proved too easy for me to solve right now. Perhaps if something interesting comes in, but it certainly doesn't look that way right now."

"Well, I'll check my email. Pass the computer." John said a few minutes later.

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"Well, by my standards, it means that I'm not at ease to pass it right now. So wait."

"You know, most people would say 'I'll give it to you in minute' or 'Just wait, please.'"

"True. But I'm not most people."

John had no argument, for this statement was true.

"Get out."

"What?"

"I said get out."

John let out an agitated sigh, then retorted, "Let me guess. Mind-"

"Palace, yes. Now get out. This may be an important case and a cause for adventure."

John sighed and walked out the door, out of 221B, onto the concrete in front of his flat and watched all of the cars go by, thinking. Thinking about what people thought of him, being kicked out of the flat and sitting on the sidewalk. He spotted one of Sherlock's homeless network people, and he waved gamely. The woman waved back with a knowing smile, for she knew Sherlock's habits and what lengths he would go to get people- even his best friends- out of his way. John trudged back up the stairs, back into his flat, where he saw Sherlock leaning aggressively over his laptop. "Find anything?"

"Actually, yes. Seventeen people showed up to a costume party, seventeen people dropped dead the next day. Cause unknown, obviously. Says that they died 'of their own accord'. Must be murder, probably weaponless. For what cause, I have no clue."

"Then-"

"Scratch that. I have SOME idea of what's going on. I'll need every part of the maintenance crew under lock and key for the time being. I have work to do."

"Alright. How will this fit into our schedules?"

"Well, we'll start the interrogation today, I believe. What day is today?"

"Tuesday."

"Then I suggest you get ready, John, for we have a murder mystery to solve."

Twenty minutes later, they were out the door. Sherlock stalking down the street, John scurrying behind him with all of the intention of solving the crime.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Where is this case, incidentally?" John said while looking out of the cab's window.

"Hm?" Sherlock looked up and glanced at John.

"Where. Is. The. Case."

"65 Northlander Avenue. Bit far away from here, but we should be able to swing it. I expect we'll be there and back by dinner time."

"Excellent. Who's got dinner?"

"I was thinking Chinese."

"It's always Chinese with you, isn't it?" John smirked and looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock hinted at a smile. "Well, it's cheap and fast. Better for the both of us."

"True, true…"

The scene of the crime was desolate and barren. Sherlock held up the shiny yellow police tape for John as they got closer to Lestrade, who had his eyes glued to his phone but looked up when he saw Sherlock's tall figure and John's stunted one approaching. "Excellent. We've got all of Scotland Yard here but none of them has got a clue what happened."

"Obviously not," Sherlock muttered. "Lead me to where it happened."

Lestrade looked around, then led Sherlock and John to the entrance of the church, which was huge and intimidating. Scenes of stained glass glittered in the late morning light.

"I need all of the maintenance crew under lock and key." Sherlock addressed to Lestrade on their brisk walk to the room of the party.

"Wait-"

"Lock and key, I said!"

"That's not as simple as it seems. There were over one hundred crew members, most of them scattered in various places that aren't right around the corner."

"Then find them and bring them back."

"Christs' sake, Sherlock. Give me some time."

John, who had kept quiet during this whole exchange, spoke up. "So we're eliminating the fact that one of the party guests did it?"

"Yes. Do listen, John. Seventeen people showed up, seventeen people dropped dead. While security has known to fail now and again, I'm going to focus on the crew right now. There's too much of a possibility that one of them did it."

"Fine, fine. Don't expect me to figure out anything, then."

The trio turned a corner and ran into-

"Anderson." Sherlock's lip curled into a look of immediate distaste.

Anderson spared John a curt glance, then turned towards Lestrade. "What's HE doing here?"

"He's our best detective, dammit. And frankly, the only one qualified enough to be doing the investigation in here. Leave."

John bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Sherlock gave Anderson a look of utmost loathing, then roughly pushed past him, John in tow. "We almost there?"

"This is it." Lestrade stopped in front of an arching doorway, easily large enough to fit a piano through. Inside, though, it was quite smaller. The filtered light came streaming in through the stained glass windows and the room was incredibly small. Remnants of the party were still visible, a streamer here and a feather there.

"Details, Lestrade."

I don't know much. It was raining that night, pouring really. It was a costume party, everyone with a mask on. Suspicious, if you ask me. Plenty of props, but no food. Nothing at all. So we ruled out food poisoning. We've brought a few of the bodies in for inspection, but nothing strange in the bloodstream yet. Take a look around."

Sherlock and John went in opposite directions, John to the stage and Sherlock to the controls for the lighting. Lestrade stayed in the same spot, taking the room in.

"Sherlock." John murmured.

"Hm?"

"Strange smell over here. And some footprints, probably a man's by the size of them."

Sherlock quickly turned around and walked to the stage. His steps made an echo in the otherwise empty room. "Smell is from the cleanup crew's work. Reason it smells funny is because there is a hint of body odor left over from the party. Footprints are from a man, part of the cleanup crew, walking across the stage. Why he didn't clean his footprints up, might be suspicious. I would think that they would leave the place spotless, considering it's a church."

"Although not a very well-kept one," John countered.

"True."

"Got anything?" Lestrade's voice carried about the room.

"I'm getting the remnants of a gas, maybe poisonous, maybe not. Almost odorless. The crew, and only the crew, were able to get the ladder that would take them up to the sound booth-"

"Soundbooth?"

"Up there." Sherlock pointed to a platform hanging from the ceiling. "They would most defiantly need a ladder for that, as there are no steps descending to the ground. And no party guest would bring a ladder in, would they? No, absolutely not."

"How can YOU smell what's up there?" Lestrade was skeptical.

"I can't! I can feel a different gas. This one's more humid, a different temperature. Feels stranger to the skin."

"Should we get someone from Scotland Yard up there?"

"I think not. If this is what killed those seventeen people, we don't want another person dead without a clear cause. It'll just cause trouble."

"Then how-"

"Actually, find a way to get Anderson up there."

John, inspecting the footprints on the stage, smiled to himself.

Lestrade sighed. "Can we get on that tomorrow?"

"Let's take a lunch break." John glanced up from the stage.

"Great idea. Lestrade, go get some food."

"I'm not your bloody maid-"

"Isn't there a place around the corner that sells chips?"

John rolled his eyes. "I'll go get it. Lestrade, you supervise him."

Lestrade sent John an affronted look but said nothing.

"Yes, wonderful idea." Sherlock piped in from the corner, not even looking away from whatever he was doing.

"Alright, be back in fifteen. Sherlock, don't do anything immature."

"Me? Immature? Never." Sherlock turned to face John, the faintest of smiles playing on his features.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

John quickly returned with the plate of chips and some fresh seasoning to go along. "Find anythi-"

There was no one in the room, down to the dusty corners.

John adjusted the bag of chips on his arm and sighed. He started briskly walking throughout the church, stopping only to take a peek into each room. "Sherlock?" He called, stopping at the fifth door that he came across.

"Over here," Came the somewhat quiet reply from the corner. Sherlock was inspecting the dusty piano in the corner, stalking around the piano and taking a look at it from all angles.

"Any… deductions?" John asked. "Where's Lestrade?"

"He is outside, talking to the manager who was in charge of this whole shindig. As for me, I have absolutely confirmed that it's a poisonous gas that did the killing. Musty atmosphere and decay in the corners of the room have confirmed it. As it's been several days since the party, most traces of it are gone." Sherlock faced John. "Chips, please."

"Hm? Oh, yes." John handed over the chips and a bottle of water. They sat down at an abandoned table and ate, abruptly interrupted by Lestrade a few minutes later.

"Sherlock? We've got the manager for you. He would like to talk to you."

"Oh, would he?" Sherlock murmured. With a curt nod towards John, he walked to the door. John trailed behind him, giving Lestrade the remainder of the chips as they both exited the church.

"Mister Holmes!" The shout came from a stout, potbellied man standing right outside the great wooden doors.

"Sherlock. The name's Sherlock." Sherlock said as he shook hands with a disdainful look at the short, unhygienic man.

"Terribly sorry," The man said as John threw Sherlock a cutting look, although he paid no notice. "My name is Cary Guaire, and I was the one managing the party. "Shocking thing, you know, to find out that the same people you recently talked to for a party. Broke my heart- I knew many of those people." The man spoke with a thick Scottish accent.

"But you had no interest for going to the party?"

"Ah, no. I'm not a big one for parties. And the guest list was quite exclusive, I wouldn't have been invited otherwise. Guess I was lucky."

"Indeed," Sherlock muttered. "The crew?"

"Not very intimidating or suspicious. About a hundred crew members, give or take ten."

"For a party of seventeen?"

"Yes, yes. As I told you, the party was very fancy and very exclusive. Plus, we had your regular cleanup crew at the church there to clean things up afterwards."

"And nobody else died?" John was keen to know."

"Not a soul. Then again, nobody came to clean up after the party, as far as I can tell. Came back the next morning, though."

"Excellent, excellent," Sherlock smiled.

"Excellent? We've got a serial killer on our hands!" Guaire was shocked by Sherlock's demeanor.

"Shouldn't take us long, then?" Sherlock turned around and faced John. "John, get a cab. We're going back to the flat."

"Got your evidence?" Sherlock proceeded to hold up a bag with a sliver of tarnished wood and a vial of what appeared to be nothing.

"Great." John gave a nod to Lestrade, then walked to the nearest street with Sherlock following close behind him. He flagged down a taxi and the two men got in."

"So, what do you think?" John asked after a long, yet not awkward, silence.

"I've already told you everything. Pay attention. Let's make a stop by St. Bart's first, meet up with Molly and get some work done. It's important for the research."

"Obviously, or you wouldn't still be talking about it," John said under his breath.

Sherlock said nothing, just smiled and looked away until the duo reached St. Bart's.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Molly?" Sherlock's call rang about the empty lab.

"Over here!" Molly Hooper, with her hair thrown back into a messy ponytail and her lab coat with suspicious stains on it, walked over to the duo. "Sorry, just finishing up some-"

"Good, good," Sherlock answered absentmindedly. "Now, we need to complete some lab tests for this mysterious and probably poisonous gas from the church case." John threw Molly an apologetic look as they walked over to an empty table with the things needed to inspect the element. Molly sighed, then busied herself getting the other lab instruments and chemicals needed while John sat down at a stool and watched them with mild interest. He still wasn't much use at a lab; he was more heart than brains.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was furiously getting to work, lab test after lab test. He poured chemicals into tiny vials, observed bubbling and steaming solutions, and stared into a microscope all the while muttering to himself.

After a while, John got a bit bored and hungry, for he had no real lunch. He walked out of the room to go get food with no explanation; they knew what he was doing. John passed other labs and rooms, and a stairway leading up to the roof. All the while, he was thinking.

It was no surprise that John suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. After all, he had been in a war. But, he thought, he did miss it, as Mycroft had said. The adrenaline and the blood pumping through his veins. That was why he decided to put up with Sherlock for so long-it provided a cause for adventure, to get the fear and excitement through his blood again. But lately…

It wasn't that he wanted to move out. No, no, he never wanted to leave if it meant that he could have a new adventure every week, and good friends by his side. Even if it was life-threating. But no, he didn't want to leave. He just… just… just felt different about Sherlock, somehow. Sherlock was always a great companion, if not a bit of an arse at times. But this… this was different.

John felt _whole_ again when he was with Sherlock. The PTSD, the eating disorder… it all went away when John was with Sherlock. Although Sherlock was a crazy git sometimes, John thought, smiling to himself, he made him feel like he was healed. It was a wonderful feeling. He didn't know how Sherlock felt, but John knew that sometimes Sherlock seemed a bit healed, too. He had heard the rumors of what Sherlock was up to before John showed up.

"John!" Sherlock's voice from far away broke John out of his thoughts.

"Give me a bloody second!" John was still a good bit away from the lab room, crisps in hand. He wasted no time in getting to the room, though, because Sherlock sounded impatient. But then, he usually sounded impatient.

When John got back to the lab, Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the stool. "I've confirmed that it is carbon monoxide."

"But carbon monoxide isn't musty!"

"That was just the condition of the room. I've tested my blood, I do not have fatal amounts in my blood, and so neither do you or Lestrade. This means that it was placed at the beginning of the party and the party would have had gone on for a pretty long while for it to be fatally injected into someone's blood."

"Have any idea of who did it?"

"Haven't the faintest. I'm running tests," Sherlock concluded, his hands firmly clasped together.

"Well, get to it, then," John retorted, opening his bag of crisps. "We haven't got all day, and it's midafternoon now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but returned to his work as John asked.

"John?" Came a sweet, but urgent, voice from the corner.

"Molly? You need anything?"

"Can I talk to you?" She asked, a determined look on her face.

"Sure, anything. Not like I'm helping, anyway."

Sherlock nodded assent from the corner.

"I wasn't asking for YOUR opinion!"

Molly didn't smile but nodded John over to where she was, in the back of the room cleaning up.

"Molly, you alright?"

"Yes, yes. I just wanted to tell you something."

"Shoot."

"I'm worried about Sherlock, John."

"What?"

"It's a strange thing, I know. But he seems so different. Not more happy or more sad, but… different. A bit less snarky, yet he still talks all the time. I notice him when he thinks nobody's looking. It's the most peculiar thing- he's picking up on people. On their emotions. It's like he's growing a heart, John, and I think I know where he gets it from."

John stayed silent.

Molly bit her lip. "You, John. You've changed him. He's your brains, and you're his heart. Ever noticed how you've become a little more adept for cases?

"Molly-"

"And now he's developing a heart. You're the first one to make him see like this, John."

John shook his head, if only to clear his mind. "Then if this is so good, why are you worried?"

"Simply because I've never seen him this way. If you were ever to leave, what would he do? That's why I'm so nervous, John. If you were to leave before he figured out himself and his foreign emotions, it could be a train wreck. You are his heart. And if you are his heart for long enough and you leave, he will fall to pieces. It's pretty hard to have a will to live when you have nobody to provide a sense of care for you."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Molly's words still rang in John's ears when Sherlock called for a cab on the streets alongside St. Barts, a couple hours later.

"John?"

John, deep in thought, did not answer.

"John!" A cold hand circled his arm.

He had almost walked into incoming traffic.

"Christ, Sherlock, it was an accident." John didn't want Sherlock to know how much he appreciated the fact that he had stopped him from almost getting run over.

"An accident? You ACCIDENTILY almost walked into a car?"

"Give it a rest," John snapped back. Then his face softened a fraction of a degree. "Listen, how about we pick up some food on the way back? I'm starving, and don't pretend you aren't either."

By now a cab had stopped for the two men, and they both quickly hopped in. Sherlock only questioned to John, "Chinese?"

"You bet." Sherlock smiled. John gave the name of the Chinese place to the cabbie, and they promptly showed up and got their food in no time.

On their way back, Sherlock took the silence as an opportunity to talk about their current situation at the church to distract him from other little things inside his head.

"So, yes, it was indeed carbon monoxide. The chemical footprint was distinct, and it was obviously odorless and colorless. That eliminated quite a lot, and the lab tests were easy."

" _Obviously_ odorless, huh? You were saying earlier that the gas had a musty smell to it"

"Yes, well, I was… wrong." Sherlock said the words as if they had difficulty coming out.

"That's never happened before," John muttered sarcastically.

Sherlock swept his black curls out of his eyes and sighed. "Yes, yes, John. The invincible Mr. Holmes has made another mistake. Ah, what will the world do?"

"And it wouldn't be a day if you weren't rude, sarcastic, or unnecessarily unpleasant." John said drily.

"What can I say? It's one of my better qualities."

"Being about as friendly as a bed of nails?"

"No, sarcasm. It really helps me pick up on the stupid ones. They don't understand it."

"Obviously."

"Obviously what?"

"You pick up on the stupid people more quickly."

"It really comes in handy sometimes."

John snorted, then turned it into a cough. "You want to investigate some more tonight? I'm sure the church is unlocked, especially if you come."

"No, but we'll try tomorrow. I want to sleep on it."

"Still have no idea of who did it?"

"That's what I'm going to sleep on."

They were interrupted by a buzzing of Sherlock's phone as the cabbie pulled up to the flat. Sherlock took one look at the caller ID and sighed. "He knows I prefer to text."

John said nothing, just paid the driver and took the food up to the flat while Sherlock followed him up the stairs.

He answered the phone. "Mycroft."

"Brother dearest."

"What is so important that it involves calling me, instead of texting me-"

"I have some news."

" _As I usually prefer."_

"I've heard that you are working on the case at the church right now."

"That smart, are you?"

Mycroft sighed into the phone. Sherlock could imagine him rolling his eyes, too. "Don't take the case, Sherlock."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Have you figured out what happened?"

"Yes. Carbon monoxide-"

"Was it easy?"

"Of course."

"That's what the killer wants you to think. He set up an easy case for you, to think you know everything and then the tables turn. Then, he provides a real threat."

"What we're dealing with is a bitter staff member, not somebody that has a grudge with _me._ Mycroft, honestly-"

"He's out for John, too."

Sherlock fell silent.

"I think it's one of Moriarity's men. Only he would set up an easy case, for you to let down your barriers and therefore find the chinks in your armor. Your best option would be to stay away, Sherlock, because Moriarity will stop at nothing to get you to let your guard down."

"Do you know this for sure?"

"Well, I'm not positive, but-"

"Thank you and good night." Sherlock hung up.

"What was that all about?" John asked Sherlock when he came into the living room.

"Nothing, really…"

"Sherlock."

"What?"

John studied Sherlock. He had a vacant but focused look in his eyes, if that made any sense. Furthermore, he was looking at _John._

"You look different, that's all."

Sherlock certainly _felt_ different. Mycroft's words about the case had taken up his mind. There was one pounding feeling in his heart, one he couldn't explain, when he looked at John while John wasn't looking.

"Nothing, nothing." To prove his point, Sherlock picked up his food and started to shovel it into his mouth. He really was starving. "What did you decide to call the case? Is it stupid?"

"The Fire and the Flood."

"That's pretty stupid."

"What? It makes sense! The fire is the heat of the situation- 17 murders without an apparent cause. The flood refers to the downpour that night."

"Still stupid."

"Well, _I_ think it's catchy!"

Sherlock returned to his Chinese food with a smirk and watch John start to furiously type on his laptop.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

John was awakened by the sounds of Mrs. Hudson walking about the kitchen, presumably to make tea for him and Sherlock. He was comforted by the noise, he carried a soft spot in his heart for the elderly landlady.

"John!" Mrs. Hudson gave a warm smile and a hug to John when he came downstairs. "The tea is for just this once, alright? I'm your landlady, not your-"

"Housekeeper. And yes, that's perfectly okay."

Sherlock was in the living room, muttering to himself while his hands were firmly clasped together.

"He's been like this all morning, I of course have no clue what he's up to." Mrs. Hudson whispered to John. John shook his head, then came to rest in his chair with the cup of tea and the morning newspaper. He read like this for a while, after Mrs. Hudson returned downstairs and Sherlock stayed almost silent for a long time.

Sherlock rose out of his chair and back into his room.

"Sherlock?"

"Get dressed. We need to go out."

John sighed and started to get up out of the chair, but he was stopped by a buzzing in Sherlock's chair. He walked over to the chair cautiously and saw a message flashing on the screen.

 _Don't forget what I said about John._

The message had no sender visible in the notification, but John didn't care about that. The only people that Sherlock really messaged was him, Lestrade, and Mycroft. And didn't Sherlock get a call from Mycroft last night about something that he wouldn't say?

John squinted and picked up the phone, but nearly had a heart attack when Sherlock came yelling in to the room. "JOHN! Where's my phone?"

John gasped and nearly dropped the thing. He silently handed the phone to Sherlock, and pretended like he had never seen it before. Sherlock didn't say a word, but John wasn't sure that he didn't notice anything.

Twenty minutes later, the two men were sent out the door with a cheery wave from Mrs. Hudson. They were walking down the street when John thought to ask, "Where are we going, exactly?"

"To the head crew member's house, or his sister's to be precise. He lives there."

"And… why?"

"To see if anything suspicious went on the night of the party."

Soon, they both arrived at the house… but the strange thing was that the door was slightly ajar already. Sherlock tilted his head and pushed on the door. It flew open.

John grimaced at the sight of the pool of blood next to the dead body on the floor.

Sherlock exhaled. "Knew it."

"How could you possibly-"

"Check is pulse, see how long he's been out. I'll look for signs of the killer, or his sister."

"John bent down to the floor. "So this is the head crew member?"

"Yes." Sherlock walked off to some corner of the house, maybe to inspect the windows.

Twenty minutes later, the door was banged open again, this time by a stranger. John and Sherlock, who had been inspecting the house, froze. Sherlock cautiously went towards the door, one hand on the place in his coat where his gun was.

A scream shattered the stunned silence.

Sherlock ran to discover the woman, presumably the dead man's sister, on her knees in the doorway. She was crying, and didn't even glance at Sherlock when he got to her and cleared his throat. John, however, having a bit more social skill than Sherlock, kneeled next to her and gently tapped her on the hand. "It'll be alright, miss, everything's alright."

It warmed Sherlock's heart a bit to see John caring for an absolute stranger, one he had never seen before in his life. "I'll make some tea, shall I?"

"Wh-why?" Stuttered the poor woman, shakily standing up.

"I expect we'll be here awhile- I need to know everything that happened the night of the costume party.

 **Thank you so much for getting this far! It means a lot to me for you to read my fanfiction. I would totally appreciate it if you were to give this fic a review, as I love new suggestions. If you like it, feel free to follow the story if you want updates on the story, or follow me if you want updates on anything I post. Thanks again! \\*(o)*/**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The woman shakily sat down on the flower-patterned couch. "How did you get in?"

"The door was slightly ajar, and there was a trickle of blood running close. We were intrigued and decided to come in. We were going to have a chat with your brother, but… well, you can see the damage."

The woman stifled a sob, and John shot Sherlock a look. "What is your name?" John asked gently.

"S-Sarah,"

"Alright, Sarah, tell us about the day of the party. You don't have to go into detail too much-"

Sherlock coughed.

John rolled his eyes. "Just say whatever you feel comfortable with saying."

Sarah cleared her throat. "My brother, Jeb, decided to take the job for the party," She started to say in a watery voice. "He considered not taking it, because he wanted to take some time home alone with me. He had been very swamped down with work. Then one day, he came home. Seemed like he had completely changed his mind. Was on the edge of his seat for the whole night, didn't even respond when we watched our favorite sitcom."

John glanced at Sherlock, who emotionlessly gave a curt nod. Sarah continued, her voice starting to get shakier.

"I've never seen him like that. He's usually so calm and mellow. He was the middle child in our family, the peacemaker. I always got into fights with my older sister.

"Then the night of the party, he came back with the same demeanor again. Shaking slightly-I saw it when I gave him some coffee- He refused to answer my questions about the party. I was so nervous, you know- but by know I thought it had blown over. He was acting normally again, but now-" She broke off, and all of them looked at the dead paunchy man, with the deep bloodstains seeping into the wood.

"Tell me, the night of the party, what time did he come back?" Sherlock intervened.

"Ab-about 11 o'clock. It wasn't very late, as most parties go."

Sherlock sighed and stood up. "Well, that was _very_ fascinating-"

"You-you're leaving?" Sarah sniffed.

"Yes, Sherlock, _why are we leaving?_ " If looks could kill, Sherlock Holmes would be 6 feet under right now.

"I have all of the information I need," Sherlock replied in a serene voice.

John sighed and said to Sarah, "Well, we'll leave you with a warm cup of tea and the whole of Scotland Yard on speed-dial. Do call them if you start to feel lonely or if you feel the need to tell the police anything, especially if you recall something suspicious. Other than that, we've got it covered. Alright?"

Sherlock was already texting Lestrade.

Sarah took a deep breath. "Alright," she murmured.

Sherlock clicked his phone off and indicated towards the door to John. "Shall we?"

John nodded goodbye to Sarah and together, the two men walked out the door. It wasn't until quite a while away, when they were in a taxi, when John said, "Was that really necessary?"

"What? I had all of the information I needed, we needed to get to the crime scene quickly…"

"And you couldn't stand to be around a crying woman…"

Sherlock snorted and looked away. "Small details."

"Sure, sure…" John smirked, like he was trying hard not to laugh at Sherlock's ultimate discomfort.

"Ah, look, we're here." Sherlock stepped out of the car along with John, and the pair of them approached the church, with its big, intimidating archways. No one else was there, for it was pretty late into the night. There was no sound, except for far-off sirens and horns, and the breeze whistling throughout the trees.

"I suppose we'd better go in, hm?"

"I suppose we shall."

John smiled discreetly, and they stepped inside the church.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sherlock squinted at the stained glass windows. "Shall we split up, then?"

"I supposed we'd better," John said, looking up at Sherlock. "We'll cover more ground that way."

Sherlock was already heading to a discreet room to the right.

John sighed and picked a room in the back, a pretty far way along from where Sherlock was. It took him several minutes to get there, because the church was so huge. The room was very dusty, and John sneezed a couple of times, disturbing some mice in the corner.

"Not very well-kept…" He muttered.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was scouting the rooms near the front, looking for any other evidence that might have indicated to the killer walking about. He rested his eyes on a suspicious-looking stain on the floor, and rushed over to it, but it was only water.

This, however, did give Sherlock a clue. "Someone's been here recently," He murmured. "It would have evaporated by now if not so."

He patted his gun in his pocket, to reassure that it was still there. He had a very good idea of what happened with the dead man in his home- someone (he still didn't have a clue) killed the man to very effectively keep him quiet about the whole thing. So Sherlock started to rule out the possibility of another crew member doing it, and begun to think about an outside party.

 _Moriarity,_ a voice whispered inside his head. Sherlock frowned. It might've been Moriarity, but why did the man kill all of these people? Or ordered someone to kill them for him? Was it the money? His "boredom"?

John was still in the other room, his back to the door, when he heard a man popped into the room. "Oh, good, Sherlock, come over-"

He stopped abruptly when he turned around and the man at the door wasn't Sherlock.

Furthermore, he had a gun in his hand.

John's eyes flashed and he thrust his hands to his sides, only to remember he had left his gun at home. "What the hell do you want?"

The stranger said nothing, just smiled silkily and kept the gun pointed at John.

John got out his phone and started to text Sherlock, very rapidly.

"Stop that, you don't want a bullet through your head, do you?" The stranger licked his lips. "I want nothing tangible- I want you to stop working with Mister Holmes."

It might've been stupid, but John cleched his fists and yelled, "SHERLOCK!"

"Oh no, none of that. I brought this gun, but you aren't that stupid, are you? I only need to use it on you if you don't stop yelling-"

"Funny how so many people tell me that," John muttered. The two men had a silent standoff, then John yelled once more, "SHERLOCK!"

"I told you once, I'm not going to tell you again."

There was still no sign of Sherlock.

John pulled out his phone, ran to the side, and pushed beside the stranger to get to the door. To his surprise, the man cloaked in black did nothing.

At least, until John got halfway to Sherlock, keeping his eyes on the man the whole time.

Then a gunshot rang about the building.

Sherlock looked up from where he was, startled by the sudden noise and suddenly panicking. That was a gunshot, wasn't it?

Sherlock sprinted out the door and came across John, in the middle of a puddle of thick red stuff that looked like-

 _Oh god,_ Sherlock realized what that dark red stuff was. His heart pounding, he cried out, "JOHN!"

Three frantic heartbeats later, John coughed and Sherlock kneeled next him, a look of mingled fury and panic in his eyes. "What do I do? You're the doctor, TELL ME!" His voice was fueled with adrenaline and refusal that John was not dying, John had not been shot-

"Keep… pressure," John wheezed. "Call 999… Sherlock… keep me awake,"

With trembling fingers, Sherlock pulled out the phone and dialed 999, then threw it aside (he knew they would come). He grabbed John's hand and pushed it to the bullet wound in his side.

 _Blood. So much blood._

"No, John, don't, no, John," Sherlock's voice broke.

"I'll… be fine,"

Sherlock's heart hammered in his chest. John's body slumped against Sherlock's.

"John! JOHN!" He slapped his face, shook his body, unable to accept the fact that…

John was here. John was dying. Sherlock wouldn't be able to tell John how he felt about him, about… everything.

The world tilted sideways for Sherlock, and the police showed up to find Sherlock staring at John, their hands still firmly held together.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Sirens wailed in the distance. Hushed whispers and pointed looks flitted around the church like birds. Sherlock Holmes was still in the same spot that he had been in five minutes ago, when the paramedics took John Watson away.

"Sherlock?" An almost gentle voice- but not quite so- just barely shook Sherlock out of his stupor.

"I- I'm getting up," He said. Sherlock refused to let his emotions get the best of him, however hard it may be. "Lestrade."

The detective studied Sherlock, but Sherlock knew at once that something was wrong.

"What is it?" He asked, his features hardening even though his insides had turned to mush.

Detective Lestrade flinched. "How did you- never mind," he said. "John is in intensive care right now. The doctors have their hopes, but the shot hit some important body parts and he's bleeding internally massively. At least, when he ran, he ran to the side so the bullet didn't catch him in the heart. Then we would have lost him for sure."

Sherlock murmured, "Intensive care…"

"Why don't you go on back to the flat?"

"No, I have to- have to look for the shooter…"

Lestrade sighed. "We've got our eyes out, however hopeless that may seem to you. You need to get back to the flat."

"No."

"Yes."

"No!"

"Sherlock Holmes, you need to go back to your house, effective immediately."

"That's not even the right words to say!"

"Don't care. Get a cab and go back."

"I don't want to get in a cab without…" The words died in Sherlock's throat.

Lestrade seemed to understand, and his voice softened. "Then take the tube."

Sherlock gave in. "Fine. But this doesn't mean that I'm staying at the flat for all of tomorrow. Got it, Graham?"

Lestrade's face hinted at a smile. "Greg."

But Sherlock was already out the door.

The news about John's wound, it seemed, had already effected everybody who knew him. When Sherlock got back to the flat, a million thoughts running through his head, a cup of steaming tea was already set out for him. He looked around, confused, when his eyes settled upon a teary Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, Sherlock," She stood up and wrapped her arms around him. Sherlock immediately stiffened, but then relaxed when Mrs. Hudson started patting him on the back, leading him over to his chair. He plopped down.

"What happened?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"I was involved in my work in another part of the church. I didn't hear a thing coming from where John was, or even a glance at the shooter. Then there was a gunshot, which very effectively grabbed me out of my stupor and I went running."

The room went dead silent. The only sounds were the whistling of the trees, and the honking of cars.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips. "Well, I'm sure he'll be okay, dearie. He's been in the war, after all. He knows how to handle himself."

But Sherlock already missed John's unnecessary smarminess and confusion.

They were both quiet for several minutes, when Sherlock's phone buzzed. He didn't care, but he glanced at the screen.

It was from Mycroft.

 _What did I tell you?_

Sherlock threw the phone to the other side of the room, startling Mrs. Hudson.

"What? What is it?"

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. "Oh, nothing. Just a titanic headache that comes in the form of the man named Mycroft Holmes."

Mrs. Hudson patted his hand. "Well, I'm off to bed, dearie. Don't overthink it, and do try and get some sleep. You can visit him tomorrow."

And, with a final smile, she left Sherlock staring at John's chair, lost in thought.

After some time, Sherlock slowly got into his pyjamas and escaped to his room, when the idea came to him. He needed someone to talk to, and what better person to talk to than-

He smiled, for the first time in hours. He would think about it in the morning.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Molly," Sherlock said. "Can I talk to you?"

"Of course, of course," Molly Hooper replied, flustered. "What is the problem?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

"Oh. Oh, Sherlock, I'm so terribly sorry."

"That's what I came to talk to you about."

Molly's face flushed. "Of course. Come sit over here," She said, motioning over to two plastic chairs. Uncomfortable, but they would have to do. "Where do you want to start? With John, or-"

"How do you cope with it? I know you lost your brother two years ago. What do I do?"

"Well… When I lost August, I distracted myself in any way I could. One thing I know, he wouldn't have wanted to me to mope around like that. And I'm sure John feels the same way."

"Well…"

"He _would,_ and don't you deny it."

"How on Earth do I distract myself, then?"

"Pick up a new case. Or write some new music."

"For God's sake, I was _working_ on a case when this happened."

"Violin, then."

Sherlock was quiet. He pondered this. He hadn't had played violin in a very long time, because of all the busy work. That was an idea.

"You want to do that, then?"

"I never said that," He snapped.

Molly stared at him.

"Fine!" He shouted. "Fine," He said, a bit quieter, like he meant it.

Molly gave him a hint of a smile. "You want to get started, then?" She motioned to the door.

Sherlock stood up. Molly hugged him, and he stiffened. When she let go, he walked to the door, then stopped.

He cleared his throat. "Thank you." He said quietly, but strongly.

Molly lifted her head, smiled. "You are welcome, Sherlock."

When Sherlock got back to the flat via the tube (riding in cabs was still too hard), it was totally silent. He thought for a minute, then shuffled over to the fireplace and took out a dusty violin. With some rummaging, he found the bow as well. Sherlock Holmes stood up, chin deft, and slowly lifted the violin to his chin.

A single note fell through the early morning sunlight. Then another, then another. The notes stringed together, beautiful and simple. Mrs. Hudson, downstairs, gave a smile when she heard the faint notes from above.

Hearing his phone buzz from across the room where he threw it the night before, he leapt over piles of papers only to see another text from Mycroft. Sherlock sighed, set his phone down, and gently lifted the instrument to his chin again.

He played for the rest of the morning.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

 **Ugh, I am SO sorry for not posting in, what is it, 20 days?! Anyways, I've just been super super busy lately with finals and whatnot. I promise another awesome chapter very soon (not 20 days later soon) as an apology. Again, I love you all for sticking around. Let's get to the next chapter!**

Sherlock bolted upright in bed the next day. His breath was heavy and his lips were thick with sleep, but he immediately burst out of bed and threw on some clothes. The violin still lay in the corner, but it wasn't covered with dust this time. Sherlock threw a glance at it, and then ran out the door without accepting his morning tea. He didn't care today. Mrs. Hudson smiled when she heard Sherlock thumping down the stairs.

Meanwhile, a couple miles away, John Watson was still in intensive care at the hospital, a bullet wound in his side. The retired army doctor was plastered with more bandages that he could count, more IVs than what seemed necessary (he HAD been a doctor, after all,) but his mind was miraculously clear, all things considered. He hadn't woken up yet, but his doctors were confident that he would be alright. Only Lestrade knew.

Downstairs, a man with disheveled hair and wild eyes bounded to the front desk to ask about the visiting hours.

"I am here to see Dr. John Watson- The name's Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah, yes, Mister Holmes," the prim receptionist responded. "A man came over a bit earlier to tell us that you would be arriving soon."

Sherlock checked his watch. It was half past 11. "Lestrade, then," he muttered under his breath. "Would someone care to escort me up there, then?"

"Of course," The receptionist responded. "Amy will escort you up." Sherlock set his eyes upon a young, petite nurse in clean blue scrubs with auburn hair set in a neat bob.

"Come with me, Holmes," Amy glanced up at Sherlock.

Sherlock said nothing, but obediently followed the nurse up two flights of stairs.

"You should take your dog to the vet," Sherlock commented, breaking the silence.

Amy stared at Sherlock, eyes wide and mouth dropped open. "How did you-"

"No matter. Which room is John's?"

"Psychopath," The nurse muttered under her breath.

"High-functioning sociopath," Sherlock responded. His words came out as a long sigh. Amy narrowed her eyes and stopped rather abruptly, causing Sherlock to run straight into her.

"What the hell d'you think-" Sherlock turned and caught sight of a man with graying blond hair.

John's hair.

Sherlock forgot all about the nurse beside him and, as in a trance, slowly walked into the hospital room.

It was worse than he imagined.

There were tubes poking out of every place on John's skin that didn't have a bandage on it, and his chest rose faintly. John was dressed in white hospital scrubs, but his skin was a pale milky gray.

Sherlock took a sharp breath in, then a shaky one out, trying to get a hold of his emotions.

The room was silent except for the constant beeping of the monitor. Sherlock steadied his breathing with John's heartbeat.

John was all but dead to the world, and Sherlock couldn't do a thing about it.

"Oh my god," Sherlock whispered as his trailed his fingers upon one of the IVs, careful to not touch anything too important.

The room was quiet for a long time, but this wasn't the kind of quiet that Sherlock liked. He stood up and closed the half-open door, then went back to John's hospital bed.

Sherlock looked, for a second, at all of the tubes and machinery. He took in the absolute hopelessness of the situation.

Then he reached down and took John's hand.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"I'm not leaving."

"Sherlock. You have to."

"Nope."

"Sherlock, I'm calling your brother."

"A terrible decision. Really." Sherlock Holmes still sat on John's bed, refusing at point-blank to leave. He had only been there for an hour, after all.

On the opposite side of the room, Lestrade whipped out his phone, looked at it, sighed, and then put it back in his coat pocket. "Fine, Sherlock, I'm not calling him, but-"

"Why on EARTH do you have Mycroft on speed-dial?"

"In case- in case anything ever… gets out of hand," Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock snorted.

"THE POINT IS, Sherlock, you're going home. I'm not putting up with any more of this bullshit- People are worried. I'M worried.

"About me, or John?"

Lestrade thought for a second. "You. C'mon, let's go."

Sherlock pondered this. If Lestrade wasn't worried about John, then he couldn't be too bad, could he? But John still looked like death behind him. "Fine."

Lestrade sighed a sigh of relief mixed with resignation. "Great."

The pair of the two walked out of the door, Sherlock casting a final look at John and all of his machines. Five minutes ago, when Lestrade had walked in, Sherlock was still holding John's hand. He had dropped it like a hot potato when he first heard Lestrade, but he knew Lestrade still had some suspicions.

"Sherlock, I'm not supposed to tell you, but-"

"Oh God," Sherlock muttered under his breath, his heart pounding.

"John is fine. The doctors are assured that he'll make a full recovery. It might take a few days, a week before he gets home, but he'll be alright."

Sherlock let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Sherlock?"

"No, that's good. That's- great."

He hoped his relief didn't show too much.

Lestrade, apparently, did not notice. The two men walked in silence until they approached the front door of 221B Baker Street.

"I guess I'll leave you to it, then?" Lestrade said, looking up at Sherlock.

"I guess so," Sherlock murmured.

"Don't beat yourself up. You, of all people, shouldn't be doing that."

Sherlock pushed open the door and sprinted up the stairs, two at a time. When he got up there, he checked the time- 10:07 a.m. Still too early. Too early to be thinking too much.

Steam rose from the teacup in the corner. The room was silent for several minutes.

 _Where's a good skull when you need one?_


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

 **Ahh sorry guys, for the delay! I was at a camp and they didn't allow laptops (horrendous, I know) and the end of school and whatnot. But I shouldn't be making excuses! The last chapter was pretty short, so I promise an extra-long one now to make up for it. By the way, THANK YOU to my followers- you guys remind me that people are waiting to read my chapters and I need to actually get on with them! Love, Sam 3**

Blinking and beeping. That's what John saw when he woke up.

 _Why am I in the hospital?_

Then, he remembered.

With a groan, he sunk back into the soft hospital bed. He put his arms up to stretch, but stopped when the IVs cut him short. John felt his side throbbing, and then he saw the heavy bandages.

 _Oh God._

Shot. Again.

He didn't know the day- but he wanted to know how long he'd been out. Could he call a nurse-?

A little voice in his mind whispered, _Sherlock._

Sherlock!

He had been alone for possibly more than a couple days, was he okay, did he come to see John? He couldn't remember anyone seeing him, but probably Lestrade. And- Sherlock?

Would he even do that?

Wouldn't Sherlock be too involved in his cases and problems to see John?

If Sherlock was the one in the hospital, John would most certainly come. To make sure he wasn't coming home prematurely or anything crazy like that.

But Sherlock, coming to John? John couldn't imagine the man showing much affection. Although, Sherlock had proven to surprise him before.

Still. Sherlock wouldn't do that.

At least, this was the case in John's mind.

 _The case!_

Did Sherlock solve the case? Did he figure out who shot John?

Who did shoot him?

His thoughts were interrupted by a prim, petite nurse walking in. Her eyebrows shot up with surprise when she saw John was awake.

"Oh, good! We were getting worried about you," The nurse beamed. "How're you feeling?"

"Okay," John said in a very rusty voice. He cleared his throat best he could. "Fine."

"How's the bullet wound?"

"Throbbing a bit, but otherwise it's okay."

"Good, good. You want any applesauce or ice?"

John didn't think he could stomach it. "I'm good, thank you."

"Quite all right. Any other concerns or questions?"

"Did anyone… Did anyone come to see me?"

"Yes, actually- an aging man with graying hair but a younger face-"

 _Lestrade._

"-and a strange, tallish man that gave one of the other nurses a fright. He stayed for quite a while- didn't seem to want to leave."

 _What?_

"I have to go now- do give me a ring if you need anything," she said, pointing to a green button labeled _Help_. "Do get some rest, now."

"Alright," John said faintly.

The nurse smiled and left, closing the door behind her.

John's mind was spinning. Sherlock _actually_ came?

Shocking.

And he has stayed for a while. How long, though?

Why did he stay so long?

Maybe he could ask Lestrade.

And how did he scare one of the other nurses? Despite himself, John smiled. Knowing Sherlock, it was probably one of his deductions.

John hoped he was okay. It wasn't like him, to care this much.

Although, Sherlock HAD been acting different lately. A bit sharper, but also a bit softer, if that even made sense. It was like he'd grown a bit of a heart.

John realized that he'd forgotten to ask the nurse the date. His hand hovered over the green help button for a second, then he pushed it down.

Not but a minute later, the same nurse opened the door. "You rang?"

"What day is it?"

"Tuesday?"

"No, I mean the date."

"Ah. 7 March."

"Wow," John whispered.

"Anything else?"

"No, no," John murmured.

The nurse walked out, again.

5 days.

5 days in a coma-like state.

Was Sherlock okay?


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

 _One week later_

"What?!" Sherlock squawked into the phone, then covered his mouth in case anybody heard him. "Today?" He tried to keep his cool demeanor.

It was late afternoon, and Sherlock Holmes was quietly freaking out at 221B Baker Street.

"Yes, Sherlock. Today." Lestrade was on the other line. "He seems to be recovering well, and the doctors think it's safe for him to come home if he takes it easy. NO adventures or cases. I've got my best men covering the case you were working on when John…"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock muttered impatiently.

"Well. Well, he'll be dropped off in a couple of hours. He'll still be in a wheelchair- the placement of the bullet effected his gait and therefore he has to be confined to a wheelchair for a little while longer. You can handle that, right?"

"Of course I can. Don't be moronic." Sherlock's tone was tenacious, but tight.

"You know where to call if you have any trouble. If it's serious, call 999. Otherwise, call me or the hospital."

"Fine."

"I'm hanging up now, Sherlock."

The line went silent. Sherlock threw his hands up to his scruffy mess of hair and ran his hands through it.

 _Today._ Of all days. Sherlock was starting to think that he would never come home…

Overcome with the need to do something, anything, Sherlock's hands twitched out for a second. He didn't know where to start. Confused, he turned around to look at the kitchen. He took a couple steps near it, then faltered.

 _John won't care if it's clean or not._ It would have been debatable when they first met, but it had been ages since then. But… John's room was neglected and covered with dust, unkempt, since he hadn't stayed in it in over a week.

But Sherlock didn't know how to clean!

He thought for a minute, the crazed thoughts in his head finally sorting out a bit. "Mrs. Hudson!" He called out as loud as his rusty voice could get.

"Yes, dear?" The reply was barely audible among the cars and sirens outside his flat.

Sherlock sprinted downstairs. "I need your help."

Mrs. Hudson was so surprised, she dropped the bundle of clothes that she was holding.

Sherlock sighed. "Cleaning."

"Oh. Oh! Yes! Cleaning," Mrs. Hudson was flustered, but she cottoned on pretty quickly. "What sort of cleaning?"

"John's room?"

Mrs. Hudson didn't question it. She just followed Sherlock carefully up the creaky stairs, not even bothering to look at the fallen clothes.

An hour later, John's room was tidy and clean. The living room was even straightened a bit. Sherlock liked to think that he had helped- but in reality, Mrs. Hudson had done almost all of the work. She didn't even mention the not-your-housekeeper thing.

Sherlock sighed. It was a sigh of relief, though, not impatience like most of his other sighs. "Thank you," He murmured softly to Mrs. Hudson.

"My pleasure, dearie. I'll send up some tea in the morning." She patted his hand and drifted out of the room.

It was already late. The sun was completely set, and John would be arriving in about an hour or so. Sherlock didn't know what to do with himself anymore. He settled on laying down on the black and white couch and remaining entirely motionless until John arrived. That way, he wouldn't ruin anything important.

Sure enough, an hour later, a loud knock came to the door. Sherlock closed his eyes, swallowed.

Then he got up.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

John Watson had just arrived back home at 221B Baker Street.

And Sherlock Holmes had swung open the door in anticipation. John looked up at Sherlock and gave him a bit of a smirk, as if he knew what was going on inside his head.

Sherlock didn't know _what_ was going on inside his head. Mingled relief, anticipation, sadness, and fury all tangled themselves up inside Sherlock's head. Relief at John's return, anticipation to have him back. Sadness at the horrible wound, fury at everything that had happened.

And Mycroft. Always Mycroft.

The orderly nurse left with a smile after wheeling John into the flat. The whole room was silent.

You could almost hear the crickets chirping.

"So? How bad is the flat?" John was the first to break the silence.

"Actually… Not terrible." Sherlock gave a small smile, the first one in days.

"Incredible." Both men gave a small laugh, if only to reassure the other. "So… are you going to wheel me in?

"Oh. Oh, yes." Sherlock awkwardly walked around to the back of John's chair and pushed him into the living room. John's eyes widened.

"It's… It's actually clean…"

"Obviously."

"Why?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Easier for you to get around, and also I needed to find my skull."

And there it was, gleaming on top of the mantle.

"Wow." John said quietly. "I'm impressed."

"That's a first."

John smirked up at Sherlock, thinking of their first encounter ever. "Do you want to sit down? Obviously I'm covered…"

Sherlock sat.

"Any luck on the case?"

"No, no. I was advised to stay away while you were recovering."

"Of course."

Sherlock was silent. There were so many things he wanted to say.

"And…" Sherlock swallowed.

"And?"

"I was worried." Sherlock said, his voice cracking. "I was so worried, John."

"I would be too if you were the one in the hospital." But John's mind was racing. It wasn't like Sherlock to even admit feelings.

Was it… Was it possible that Sherlock actually missed him? It didn't seem possible.

Though, he had visited him in the hospital while he was unconscious. He thought.

Both men didn't notice it, but they were actually sitting quite close to each other. John in his wheelchair, Sherlock in his regular spot.

"I'm not to be in this chair for long, you know…" John said. "It's only until I fully recover, which shouldn't be long."

"Well, you look alright. The light has returned to your eyes, so to speak."

"Are you doing alright?" John blurted out the words.

"What?"

"I was worried, too."

"Oh, because you're the one who always takes order around here."

"Well, usually." John gave a small smile.

And at that moment, the two men really looked at each other for the first time that evening.

John reached out and took Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock sighed.

"I'm glad you're safe."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Sherlock hadn't expected for the first encounter after the hospital to be this happy.

But there they were, sitting together in their little nook of an apartment. John was holding tight to Sherlock's hand. Even when John suggested to turn on the telly, Sherlock just twisted around and grabbed it.

"Clearly, the sister is the murderer. Look at her eyes dilate, her hands fiddle. It's so obvious," Sherlock said with relish, "Even you could solve it."

John was straining to see the details that Sherlock described. "Nope, can't see it."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Let's get some Chinese." Sherlock was demanding.

"Pizza."

"Chinese."

"You can't get Chinese food delivered to your front door! Go get me the phone."

Sherlock gave John a look.

" _Please."_

Sherlock got up and finally letting go of John's hand. He pushed the phone over to him from across the table from which they sat.

"It wasn't that far away, you know."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

Sherlock threw John a piercing look and reclined on his chair. John proceeded to call the pizza place around the corner.

About a half hour later, they were sucking the grease from the pizza off their fingers, wiping their hands absentmindedly on the couch.

"John?" Sherlock's heart was thudding.

"Mmm… Yes?"

"What is…? What is this?"

"A pepperoni pizza," John said, the edge of his lip quirking up.

"Not that, you idiot."

"I know, I know…" John swallowed. "I don't know." His hand nudged Sherlock's before placing it on his.

"I don't really want to tell people."

"What, too embarrassed?"

"Kind of." Sherlock was straining to find the right words.

"I'm okay with that."

"Excellent." He wasn't expecting it to be this easy.

"Good."

There was a comfortable silence, until John murmured at Sherlock to throw the pizza box away.

"Want to catch a movie sometime later this week?"

"Sure, why not?" John grinned, forgetting for a moment that he was in a wheelchair for the time being.

"Fine, it's a date." Sherlock turned around, totally oblivious to the impact of the words on John.

John just smirked.

 **Sorry that this one is so short! I promise longer, better chapters soooooon. Thank you all for sticking around xxx**


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

A pleasant buzzing arose from the opposite from where Sherlock sat the next morning.

"Lestrade." Sherlock was quiet, as to not wake John up. He was still sleeping in his bedroom, even though it was nearly eleven.

"Sherlock, we need to get back on this case _now_. Scotland Yard is going nuts, and I don't want any of my men hurt. I know, John is still recovering, but…" Lestrade's voice died.

"What do you want?" Sherlock's words were as sharp as flint.

"Just… just to get back on the case."

Glancing towards John's room, he sighed. "Very well."

"Good man, Sherlock. We'll keep an eye on John, but we can't assure that he'll stay out of trouble."

"Lestrade, no man in the world could guarantee that John Watson stays out of trouble."

Sherlock hung up. John was starting to trudge from the kitchen, very bleary-eyed.

"Morning, sunshine." Sherlock deadpanned.

John glared at Sherlock but didn't hold it for very long.

"Who were you talking to?"

"Lestrade."

"And… why?"

"He wants me to get back on the case," Sherlock's tone was very measured. _Too_ measured.

"What is it?"

"I'm not bringing you with me."

"What?"

"To the case, John. Do listen."

"Yeah, yeah, I get that part, but- "

"John."

"What is it?"

"I'm not bringing you back."

"Well, I'm bloody going back."

"No, you aren't." Sherlock's tone was slowly climbing towards condescending. "I'm not letting you go back there. How do you expect to come along with me when your movement is quite limited?"

"I'll make a speedy recovery,"

"Nice try, John. Use your brain, for God's sake. You're looking but not seeing! You don't see the dangers that you'll run into!"

"Fine, I'll call- "

"Already called Lestrade. He completely agrees with me. You need to stay here."

"What am I going to do, stuck here. All day. Nobody but Mrs. Hudson to keep me company."

"Eat. Rest. _Not go with me on the case_ , John, because we can't risk that."

"WE can't risk that? Who's WE?"

"You and me both know that one more injury, one more bullet, could put you out for good."

John was silent.

"God, I use pure logic once with you, just once, and look where it gets me." Sherlock sat down.

"Fine."

"Thank God."

"But, I'm not saying I'm staying here. I'll be out of this damned wheelchair soon, next thing you know, and I'll be walking the streets with a cane. I was a soldier once, Sherlock, I know what I'm doing."

"You're a doctor."

"I was a doctor in the army, which means I could break every bone in your body _while_ naming them."

Sherlock hinted at a smile. "Well, glad to see you're back to normal."

"I always was."

"Listen. If you do really make a speedy recovery, I'll talk to Lestrade."

"Great."

"We're still going on a… date, right?"

"Thursday night," John grinned.

"Bar?"

"Restaurant, Sherlock. No bar."

"Fair enough."

Sherlock turned around, hiding a smile.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

 **Really quick, before we get started- I just wanted to give an update! I started school recently, so my chapters might be far and few between sometimes. I promise to do my best, though! You guys have stuck around for so long that it would feel like cheating to slack off now. Thank you, thank you for everything, friends! You guys are the people who motivate me to write.**

 **Oh, and for all of y'all who want to see some plot movement, the next chapter will actually be about the case. ;)**

It was getting to be awfully lonely in 221B Baker Street.

John Watson, still confined to his wheelchair, twitched in his seat. Wishing that there was something he could do.

Because it wasn't even a bit of his personality to sit still for hours.

Standing up wasn't an option, unfortunately. He'd probably get so dizzy he'd pass out, which was obviously not ideal. Sherlock would freak out again, and…

Sherlock.

Despite himself, John smiled. Sherlock. Still ever the mystery, but John was glad that they both had come clean. And- they were going out on a date. And they had held hands. It was a small step, but a good one. The invisible barrier, small as it was, had finally broken down.

John's PTSD, the eating disorder, all of it- gone. Well, almost gone. It wasn't like the flashbacks and the nightmares were ever going to go away completely. But with Sherlock, he felt better.

Although, he was still pissed about not being able to go to the crime scene. It wasn't like he had a major disability. He was just going to be in this damned wheelchair for only two more days.

Time could not move any faster.

Thank God he would be out of it in time for the date. It wouldn't be helpful to his self-esteem to show up on a nice date, perhaps the first of many, in a wheelchair.

John heard Mrs. Hudson trotting downstairs, presumably busy with customers and such. He considered talking to her about it with a grin. He could perfectly imagine her reaction. She would be the happy, doting grandmother he never had.

And how could John even start to describe Sherlock? When he looked at him, he saw the rest of his life in front of his eyes. That was the easiest way to describe it.

John reckoned Sherlock felt the same way.

Walking- no, _wheeling_ around the flat was so different now. It was so clean, so unlike Sherlock that John still couldn't believe that he did all of this work just for him.

Well, Mrs. Hudson probably helped. But still.

He looked around the flat. At the gleaming skull, the "death Frisbee", and at the stained, old couch.

He thought of the many memories lining the place like coats of dust. Not even a bullet injury could take them away.

Which brought him to the question- _"Who wants me to stop working with Sherlock?"_

It had consumed him all the way from the hospital to back home. Moriarty was an obvious answer, but he had never really paid much attention to him. Except- John swallowed- that night at the pool. But that was one night of many other times that Moriarty could have tried to kill him.

And Moriarty's mind worked in strange ways. John had to remember that. Mere mortals like himself weren't on Moriarty's level of thinking.

He hoped that Sherlock could figure it out. Fighting, not thinking, was John's expertise.

A cab tooted outside. John sighed.

Two more days until he could be with Sherlock again.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Sherlock stared out the cabbie's window. He was finally back in the swing of things- working on the case was a great change from the last few days- but there was something missing.

Some _one_ missing.

It was no surprise that John was pissed when Sherlock denied him from coming to the crime scene. After all, John wasn't one to quietly sit still at the flat all day.

But, he would be in the wheelchair for only two more days.

The giant, regal church came into view and Sherlock swallowed. Now or never. He had to finish this case.

After he had paid the cabbie and walked out onto the wide green field, Lestrade was already standing there, texting. He looked up and quickly put the phone away.

"Sherlock! How's John?"

"Recovering. Still in a wheelchair. Still the same person." Sherlock used all of his willpower to keep his emotions in check.

"Well, that's great to hear."

"Graham- "

"It's Greg."

"Graham, why, exactly, am I here? I already figured it out- Carbon monoxide poisoning- and I'm sure the killer is out there still and to be quite frank, that is clearly more important than spending several hours in a church I've already searched."

Lestrade was more than a bit flustered. "I don't know. Maybe the killer- or one of his cohorts- left some clues the night John was shot."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Fair enough. I'll go in."

And so he did.

Sherlock Holmes was prowling the building, making deductions and picking up clues. He knew where to go first. Fists clenched, he walked over to the big, circular room where John and the killer had their exchange.

There was still blood on the floor. John's blood.

Sherlock took a shaky breath.

Nevertheless, he took a good look around the room and quickly deduced that there was a middle-aged man here, a little older than Sherlock was. Still athletic, and certainty sneaky. He couldn't deduce much because the killer had left so few clues. All that was left were the splatters of John's blood on the floor- and since Sherlock knew at which he was shot, he knew which way the killer left. Simple enough.

But there was little to nothing else. Sherlock knew he could do better elsewhere.

Wait a minute.

There was a phone in the corner of the room.

Small and black, it wouldn't have been easy to find, but easy to lose.

It probably wasn't smart- who knows what the phone could have on it- but Sherlock picked it up.

And a text appeared on the screen.

 _Behind the church. 2300._

Sherlock unlocked the phone. Strangely, it had no password. No applications, either. Just the generic phone apps.

He clicked on notes, to see what he could find.

The word _Sherlock_ was on one of the notes. He opened it.

His eyes widened, his blood pounding.

Then a silver warning appeared on the screen: _00:10, 00:09, 00:08…_

Sherlock immediately threw the phone to the opposite corner of the room and ran.

The next moment, he was thrown forward.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

The room was almost silent.

Well, what was left of the room.

Sherlock, breathing heavily, stood up and assessed his situation. His ankle seemed to be a bit sprained, but other that there were just some cuts on his face, and his ears were ringing.

He caught a glimpse of himself in a broken mirror- he looked like death. Death with lots of bloody cuts on its face.

Lestrade's footsteps soon came into range. "Sherlock?"

"Let's get out of here."

"Oh. Thank God," Lestrade muttered under his breath.

"I heard that," Sherlock said while walking in front of Lestrade, a smirk on his face.

It was noon, and already a building had blown up and Sherlock had a lead. This would prove to be an exciting day!

"Get home, Sherlock. I'm sure John could use the company. Go clean up- we'll talk tomorrow."

"Very well. Don't be a bother, and I'll see you tomorrow. Hopefully."

The cab driver glanced at Sherlock then took a double take, but said nothing. It probably wasn't every day you got bloody (literally) sociopaths in your cab.

"Baker Street, please."

After some time, Sherlock mentioned, "Actually, stop at that Chinese place on the corner."

"Oh my God- Sherlock!"

Sherlock stopped at the doorway with two boxes of lo Mein. He frowned. "Oh."

"Yeah, _oh._ Want to explain what happened?"

"Bomb," Sherlock explained curtly. He held up the boxes. "Want food?"

"Sher- "

Sherlock walked right on past, setting the boxes down on the cluttered desk.

"For the love of God, Sherlock, just _look at me._ "

Warm brown eyes met beautiful light blue ones. John blinked.

"You're alright?"

"Obviously. I would be a tall pile of ashes if not."

"Don't joke about that."

"You're smirking," Sherlock fired back.

"Pass the food."

Wordlessly, Sherlock handed over the lo Mein.

"What was the bomb all about, then?"

Sherlock licked his lips. He certainly wasn't going to tell John about the message left on the phone before it blew up. Knowing John, brave and chivalrous as he was, he would fight to come along. But Sherlock couldn't let him take the hit. Again.

"Just something to throw me off. Most people just threaten and don't actually take action, but Moriarty's…"

"Moriarty?"

"Did I forget to get the soy sauce?"

"Moriarty's involved in this?"

"The lo Mein is a bit dryer than usual, so probably."

"Sherlock, shut up about the damn lo Mein. Tell me what you've figured out."

"It's nothing for you to worry about. I've got it covered. You just need to relax."

"Lestrade's orders, huh?"

"Yes," Sherlock muttered softly. "But that doesn't mean I don't care about you."

"Sorry, what was that?" John smiled.

"You heard me, idiot."

"Dickhead."

"Shut up and eat your lo Mein."

"Don't keep thinking I'll shut up about Moriarty. I'll find out sooner or later."

"No doubt you will," Sherlock sighed. "Just… stay safe for a while."

"Done."


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

 **Sorry for the delay, friends! Schoolwork and after-school activities have got me in one hell of a frenzy. Do enjoy the long chapter!**

The note, the one on the phone in the church, was stuck in Sherlock's head. He was more scared than he could let on, but… This was extreme. He hoped John wouldn't notice.

The clocked slowly ticked to 10:30 p.m. Both men were sitting on the couch, holding hands again, watching some more irrelevant television. John had closed his eyes a while ago. Sherlock slowly, carefully let go of the warm hand clasped against his.

He had business to do.

Leaving John to sleep on the couch, Sherlock swallowed, pressed a kiss against John's forehead, and quietly left.

He was sporting the classic Sherlock Holmes look as he walked down the street to call a taxi, his coat collar turned up against the wind and the signature purple scarf wrapped around his neck. Luckily, no one noticed him on the way to the church.

The cabbie dropped him off at the base of the small pile of rubble at the back of the church without a word. A small figure was visible in the distance, and against all better judgment, Sherlock walked towards it.

John was awoken suddenly by a cab horn outside, but something was off.

The first indication that something was wrong was the elegant hand pressed against his when he drifted off was missing.

Furthermore, there was no note.

John looked at the clock: 11:13.

He was going to _kill_ Sherlock.

 _And he was still attached to the damn chair._

Not like that was going to stop him.

"Right," he muttered. Throwing drawers open left and right, he found his gun. He made sure there was enough ammo in it, then he wheeled out the door and down the temporary ramp that had been made for him.

Facing the wind, he carefully made his way to a bar to think things out. Where Sherlock was. How to get to him. What he was doing. _Why_ he was doing it.

"Can I get you anything?" The bored bartender stared at John's wheelchair.

"Just some water, please." It probably wouldn't be wise to drink alcohol, what with the state he was in.

As the bartender plunked the frosty glass of water down on the table, John gazed at the rusty drunks, the regulars, and lost himself in his thoughts…

"So."

Sherlock squinted at the short figure in front of him. "Lovely night."

"I thought it would be nice to… watch the fireworks, as they say."

"What do you want, Moriarty?"

"Figured that much out, have you?" He commented cheerfully.

Sherlock took a bold step forward. "Tell me what you're doing to John."

"Oho! So we care about our little Johnny boy?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth.

"Yes… Ah, yes, he is in danger. Danger, indeed." Moriarty stood up straight. "Terribly grave danger…"

"The whole church was a setup, wasn't it?"

"That?" Moriarty scoffed. "Yeah, it was me. Pretty splendid, huh? Kill some people, easy solution… Sherlock Holmes takes the bait. And with him comes John."

"I still don't see why John is so involved in this… case."

"You see but you don't _observe_ …"

"I don't observe, do I?"

"Not more than people give you credit for. You're just a farce, Sherlock. Everyone thinks of you as the big, bad Sherlock Holmes, but…" Moriarty trailed off. "You're no mastermind. Just ordinary."

"At this point? I don't care," Sherlock shot back. "Your petty mind tricks and games don't effect me."

"Ah, but they do, don't they?"

"What have you done?" Sherlock's face flushed with anger.

"Getting all scared about his little toy now, hm? This game is getting fun!"

"Why do I even bother?"

The two men had a silent standoff for a minute. Then Moriarty checked his watch.

"The fireworks are going off soon…" He whispered.

"The fireworks…" Sherlock repeated.

A flash of light, near where Sherlock's flat was. That's all it took.

He ran. Ran, leaving Moriarty behind him, not even caring that he was leaving a huge lead behind.

Only one name was now present in Sherlock's mind.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Sherlock thought he knew pain. He had been tortured endlessly, his limbs stretched and broken to the point where it could be fatal. He had been beaten senseless.

But none of that was comparable to the pain he felt now when he saw 221B blasted to rubble.

Sherlock knew John's remains were in there somewhere. There was no possible way that he was alive in all of that mess.

He shivered.

Vaguely, another part of him recognized that Lestrade had settled beside him, one hand placed firmly on his back. He didn't acknowledge it.

Words were spoken, hot tea was forced in front of Sherlock. He didn't take it.

He didn't feel like doing much of anything anymore.

Tears were falling, and Sherlock didn't even notice it until the wet, warm dripping leaked into the corner of his cheek. Swallowing heavily, he closed his eyes.

Everybody was outside now. They must have heard the blast and now a writhing mass of bodies were crowded around what used to be the entrance. Molly, Anderson, Sally… Everybody was there. Silently watching the fireworks.

Sherlock just wanted them to _go away._

He sat down heavily, blood roaring in his ears. He felt like a man of brittle stone- one touch and he would fall apart.

One shaky breath after the other, Sherlock forced himself to stay awake. Just long enough so he could figure out what was going on.

But he didn't know when, _if_ he would ever recover.

xxxx

A loud explosion rocked the bar that John Watson was sitting in. The drunks all hazily looked up, momentarily startled, then went back to their drinks like nothing had happened.

However, John was concerned.

Excusing himself from the drab counter, he wheeled out the door and into the cold night. His heart was in his throat, refusing to believe, refusing to think about the possibility that Sherlock might be hurt.

He may be confined to his chair, but nothing would stop him from coming after anyone who might hurt Sherlock.

Turning onto Baker Street, he could already tell that the damage was bad. John could smell smoke, and the crackle of silence after an explosion.

Then he saw the police tape and the stretchers, holding mangled, battered bodies.

John felt the wind knocked of him.

Sherlock could, probably _was,_ on one of those stretchers. But maybe not?

He commanded himself not to hope. If Sherlock wasn't on one of the stretchers, he was probably dead.

From afar, he could hear the low voices of Lestrade and Sally. No Sherlock. He knew they couldn't see him yet, because of the blinding lights around the crime scene.

John caught sight of a crying man, on the ground, head in his hands. Legs splayed out like those of a child's, a shot of pity shook his body. So many lives, so many loved ones-

Then John took a closer look at the grieving man. At the knit scarf, the unnecessarily long coat-

It was Sherlock.

John let out a cry that was half relief, half worry, and wheeled frantically to Sherlock.

His brain, his other half.

 _Thank God._

 **Ooh, that was a good cliffhanger, wasn't it? ;)) I'll publish the next chapter sooner this time, since I have a structured outline of it now. Thank you all for sticking around- have a wonderful day/afternoon/evening xx**


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Sherlock's first indication that John was alive was the screeching sound of a wheelchair coming towards where he was sitting. He let those thoughts go, though. No need to get his hopes up. It was probably another rusty stretcher wheeling another victim to the ambulance.

Still numb, Sherlock forced himself to get up. To walk somewhere, to forget himself and what happened-

When a familiar black jacket caught the corner of his vision.

Which was attached to a familiar torso.

Which was attached to a familiar head.

Sherlock barked out a hysterical laugh, one that was so unlike him that John laughed.

 _John laughed._

"You idiot," John smiled, tears brimming in his eyes. "I thought you were dead."

Sherlock didn't even know what to say.

"Too bad the flat was so clean, huh? You could have saved yourself a lot of trouble."

"John-"

"Yes?"

"I thought your remains…" Sherlock's voice cracked. "I thought your remains were in there somewhere. I had no indication you were alive, _nothing._ "

"Well, I'm here now…"

"Don't be smart with me. My world just flipped upside down," Sherlock bark-laughed again, tears starting to spill over.

"Funnily enough, I feel the same way," John smirked. "Goddammit, Sherlock, you emotional bastard." He sniffed and smiled.

Sherlock didn't hesitate before kissing John on the spot.

Another bomb could've gone off ten feet away from them, and neither would have cared.

They didn't even care that Lestrade had just dropped his phone in shock in seeing the pair of them.

Nothing was comparable to the grief, anger, relief, and passion coursing through them both at this very moment.

Finally, John and Sherlock broke apart, still tearful, but the full force of relief hit them. They were alive. They were with each other.

Anderson, somewhere in the distance, smirked as Sally Donovan gave him a ten-dollar bill and watched the now reunited couple.

Mycroft could be heard quietly muttering under his breath, "I fucking knew it" after Lestrade told him about the kiss.

Of course, Sherlock and John didn't care about all of this.

"Dinner?"

"Starving," John whispered.

"Chinese?"

"Of course."

"I love you."

"No shit, Sherlock."

They would worry about the flat tomorrow.


	24. UPDATE- Please read

Chapter 24

 **This is just a quick update.** I apologize for not updating this story- but I'm having troublewith finishing it. I don't know whether to update the story further, or to write one more chapter that ties everything up. It's getting harder and harder to write now, with school and all, but if you guys want to see an extended story- I'll make it happen. Please just understand that I'm not sure what to add on to this story anymore- that's all I ask! PLEASE, please leave your opinion in the comments. Leave a review, whatever. Let me know your feedback- it'll help me make this tough decision.

Thanks! -Sam


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